One Hundred and Ninety Six

Love is as real as we are.  And as much an illusion as we are.

Not everyone has love, and everyone who does eventually loses it.  But I did have it, and I must stop telling myself it's not real merely because it's no longer real for me.

I've always known the self that loves and is loved is an illusion.  Behind it is someone or something that neither loves nor is loved, but only watches.  Nevertheless it's an illusion that makes life bearable.

I loved her and I liked her, which doesn't often happen.  The trick is to know the difference.  

We like people who are, or seem to be, like us; but we love people who are, or seem to be, better than we are.  Eventually we become bored with the people who seem to be like us, because we think we know all there is to know about them; but we never stop loving the people who remain a mystery. The trick is to know that no matter how well we come to know someone else, we always remain strangers to each other, just as we always remain strangers to ourselves.

Friendship is fine, but love makes life bearable, even for people to whom it's only a myth.  My life is no longer bearable.